


This Is How We Met (working title)

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Chubby Jean, Disability, Eventual Fluff, Hospitals, Jean has a pet pomeranian named Bleddyn, M/M, Paraplegia, Punk Eren Yeager, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Wheelchairs, alcohol consumption, and marco is sick as always, hitch is jean's sister, jean gets hit by a bus, jean is just salty at life, jean's a lil pudgy just a bit lmao, may or may not be inspired by skins, setting: ealing - london, short marco, there will be more characters added to tags when they actually appear, yes yes everyone in this is a damn brit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-06 14:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6757570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirschtein was fifteen when that bus collided with his body. From then on, everything in life seemed so different to before. Everything was harder, and being the ambitious boy he was, Jean hated that. He didn't want a challenge in life. He wanted everything to run smoothly, so he could retire at the age of thirty eight with a beautiful wife (or husband, he wasn't entirely sure yet) in a huge mansion. He didn't think that was going to happen any more. </p><p>That bus caused a butterfly effect. That bus was the reason Jean met Marco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In The Heat Of The Moment

**Author's Note:**

> I have done extensive research on the topic of disability, and I've really tried to make everything as accurate as I possibly can - and I don't intend for this to be offensive at all! I'm really sorry if I get anything wrong. 
> 
> I also set the story in the UK (where I live) as an excuse to be lazy and not have to research rules and morals in America. But then again, all the characters are supposed to be European, aren't they? 
> 
> My friend and I planned a lot of this together, so while I am the writer, I'm shouting out my friend Spence for providing so many ideas for the story! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy whatever it is I've been able to shit out for you all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean's story, and his first day at school.

When Jean imagined life-changing accidents, he imagined endless hours of unbearable, searing pain. Everybody would be gathered around his quivering body as he screamed in agony. There would be blood pooling out of him, leaving him cold and ice white. Tears would be streaming down his eloquently structured face, and every person surrounding him would, too, be weeping. He would be taken to hospital, and everyone would clear a path for the paramedics carrying him. There would be mountains of exotic, colourful flowers at his bedside (except for lilies; he was deadly allergic), and hundreds of 'get well soon' cards from friends and family. His story would be reported on every news service in the entirety of Europe, and even maybe America. A biography would be written, a movie would be made. It would be a beautiful tragedy, Jean thought, should anything happen to him.   
  
Jean's life-changing accident wasn't much like he'd expected it to be. It happened in an instant, and in that instant he was knocked out cold. Only two or three people saw what happened; there was no crowd of sobbing schoolmates. The only blood was a small, dribbling stream from his nose; and in a few later minutes, the corner of his mouth. The nosebleed wasn't even because of the accident. A particular asshole from his school year had punched him right in the centre of the face mere minutes before the incident occurred. Mrs Brzenska had to perform CPR on his lifeless, rag-doll body whilst Miss Ral contacted the hospital. The ambulance arrived two minutes late, and if nobody on the scene hadn't known first aid, he probably would've died. He wasn't breathing on his own. His heart didn't beat once.  
  
Jean had been told his mother travelled with him in the ambulance, that she'd stroked his hair despite him being comatose on the ride to hospital. He knew this was a lie. His mother was at work at 1:37pm most days, and Miss Ral had said herself that she'd supervised his transfer into the emergency unit. There were several lies and rumours being spread around, and he really had no idea why. Was it supposed to be _comforting_ to be told his mother had blessed him with some sort of bullshit affection when he was asleep? Perhaps it was a poor attempt at the placebo affect - maybe people assumed he would recover faster if he thought they really cared that much. Some people really believed he was dead. He may have looked like a corpse, laying on the damp tarmac in the middle of the road while a bus driver frantically reversed his enormous vehicle, but he had just about hung on to his precious little life, give or take a few luxuries like walking and breathing. The worst rumour of all was that some people swore he'd been pushed into the road as the bus was turning the corner. Jean hated Eren, the boy who'd broken his nose and caused his undignified nosebleed. That was for sure. He may have been knocked out by the blow, but he would never,  _ever_ think to believe that a boy like Eren would purposefully throw him in front of a moving vehicle. Even assholes had morals.   
  
Jean didn't wake up until a week after the accident. The first thing he noticed, when he opened his eyes, was that he could barely move. Everything ached, especially his back. He couldn't turn his head without it creaking in distress, and the jolt of pain made his eyes water. The more he laid there, the more he realised that not  _everything_ ached. Everything right down to his mid-torso ached. From there, downwards? Nothing. He couldn't move his arms the slightest bit without the most extreme effort, and his legs didn't want to respond to his brain at all. At first, he thought he was just in too much pain to allow himself to move a muscle. That he was too weak from the blunt force trauma. The more he tried, though, the more he began to realise the truth.  
  
His legs didn't work any more. The moment he finally came to that conclusion, he near enough screamed. He didn't though, because his neck ached so badly that practically anything more than a whisper would probably make it worse. That, and the fact that there was a tube shoved down his throat and into his windpipe, which was one of the most uncomfortable, penetrating experiences he'd ever felt. He couldn't breathe on his own. He couldn't even speak - the frail attempts he made only ended in complete and utter silence. He was on life support.   
  
After two or three minutes following his awakening, someone in the room - perhaps a nurse, or another patient, he wasn't conscious enough to tell - had noticed his petty attempts to move and his frightened, wide, darting eyes, and realised he was finally awake. Doctors rushed into the room with clipboards, preparing to run tests. They adjusted all of Jean's equipment and, without speaking to him or moving him at all, ran through the motions as if they'd done so a thousand times. It was almost as if Jean wasn't actually there at all. He couldn't move, couldn't even breathe for himself. All he could do was stare around in shock and confusion at all the hazy people before his eyes, biting his lip and attempting to mouth words at them. He was struggling, that was for sure.   
  
Jean's parents were called a short while later, and though they tried their best to communicate with him, he still couldn't do anything but watch as they blabbered on and on, and sobbed, and ran their fingers through his hair, as if he was a dog. A silent, frozen, vegetable dog. It wasn't as if his entire body was paralysed - it was just a huge bummer to be hurting on one half and be paralysed on the other. The dumb ventilator poking through his mouth still wasn't a joy for him. Still, it was better than not breathing at all.   
  
A few things  _were_ similar to how Jean had anticipated, though. He did receive flowers, though there was only one vase-full and they were rather bland shade of wilting, baby pink. He got cards as well - two. One from his mother and father, which also contained a £100 note, but Jean came to the conclusion that it was simply a way of bribing his unconscious body into waking up. 'Go on, get up and buy yourself a fancy new pair of designer shoes.' He didn't suppose he'd be needing shoes, not any more. The other card was from his school year as a whole - it was signed by pretty much anybody who had attended a class with him. All The Lads had all signed - not with their titles, but other such things; _'The Manager Of Maccy D's', 'The Archbishop Of Banterbury'_ , and Jean's _obvious favourite; 'That hairy scrotum wot broke your dick-shaped nose'._ He didn't assume for a moment that it was really Eren who wrote that. Instead he was greeted with small, messy handwriting in the very corner of the card, trying to hide itself from view. _'Get well soon. -Eren.'_ It looked forced, come to think of it. He wouldn't be surprised in the least if the boy had refrained from writing anything, until peer pressure dug into him like talons tearing the skin. Other people wrote their names too, including all the girls with their neat handwriting and curly kisses at the end of each signature, and even people he didn't know  _had_ names. It was a little uplifting, he supposed, to know that some people probably really did care. ' _The Cheekiest Of Nandos'_ most likely did, that was for sure.

Another similar thing was the news story. The BBC briefly reported that a fifteen year old boy from West London was in critical condition after being mowed down by a bus. Everyone across the UK knew now, even though it was only in the spotlight for about a minute - the rest of the segment was a report on road safety; Jean had only been used as an example. There were pictures all over the internet of a crooked 5'8 body in a white shirt and red tie, arms pointing one way and legs pointing the other. He really did look dead in those pictures.   
  
All of that was months ago, now, though. After Jean had stopped aching so much, he quickly regained the use of his arms. His injury, as it turned out, was actually quite high up - just a little bit further and he'd only be able to move his head. With that, his ability to breathe was beginning to return, too. He was stuck on a ventilator for an irritating fortnight - he absolutely hated not being able to speak his mind constantly, the way he used to. Even when they finally removed the ventilator from his lungs, it took a few days of hoarse wheezing before he could construct regular sentences again. He still needed to wear a mask at night, just in case he stopped breathing. His days in hospital were the worst.   
  
He was glad to have it all behind him. Well, not all of it. He was still stuck in a wheelchair, and he still had chronic whiplash. Even though he was being cared for at home by his parents, he received plenty of visits from Nurse Berner; a physiotherapist assigned to Jean by his very own eccentric Doctor Zoe. Doctor Zoe scared Jean a little, to be fair. Would it be a lie to say she scared everyone, just a little? No, not really. Her ideologies as a doctor and surgeon were more up-close-and-personal than most others in her profession. She asked constant questions, like she was a child repeating the word 'why?', though it almost made sense to Jean - the smartest people always found new things to try to understand. Jean spent a lot of time reminiscing, whether it was good or bad. Thinking about everything he'd been through. It was the Easter holidays, and after the two weeks were over he'd be returning to school for the first time. He was in year 11 - the exams were getting closer and closer and he was not going to forfeit his ideal lifestyle just because of a few minor (read: major) setbacks. A lot of people had warned against pushing himself back into a regular lifestyle too quickly, they kept telling him he should've stayed in rehab a little longer. He thought, if he knew the basics, that would be enough, right? Like any middle class fifteen year old in London, he was ambitious.

 

* * *

  
  
Easter Sunday was yesterday, and now it was Monday. No more family time. Jean's father was out working, Jean's mother was out working too, and Jean's sister was over at her friend's house. Somehow, he'd been trusted to man the house, with nobody but his trusty pomeranian, who his little sister had insisted he called Bleddyn. He knew it was a Welsh name - only people across the bridge ever pronounced double Ds like a 'TH', but he didn't know what it meant, and he didn't actually care all that much. His sister was annoying, and that was all he really had to say on the matter - if he caved to her wishes, usually she wouldn't bother him so much.   
  
The loud trumpets and guitar riffs of the Brooklyn 99 theme blasted out from the TV. Who was going to tell Jean to turn down the volume? Nobody. It was much better than when he was in medical care, when all he had was an iPad and some shitty headphones that only actually worked in one ear - and even then, they kept falling out every time he moved. Not that he moved much, with the constant ache hindering his neck. He found Jake Peralta and Amy Santiago's antics a lot funnier when he could actually hear what they were saying - though he'd binged the entire first series whilst confined to an uncomfortable hospital bed, he hadn't really managed to grasp the plot beyond 'American policemen are useless and funny'. It was nice to have a few laughs, even if each chuckle hurt his throat. He was laying on the sofa, propped up with cushions his mother had shoved down behind his back before she kissed his forehead and left the house. That was, as far as Jean was aware, 7:58 in the morning. It was now 1:29 in the afternoon. Jean hadn't eaten, nor had he moved a muscle, apart from flicking the buttons on his PS4 controller and petting his marshmallow-like dog whenever he walked past the sofa. It was much harder to get uncomfortable when there was no sensation in your legs or butt. There was no constant shifting around, trying to get into a nice position. There was the occasional rare occurrence of pins and needles, but he could live with that.  
  
Jean didn't want to spend all his free time the same way he did in recovery, though. He was going back to school in a week's time. He was going to have to get used to moving around more. After watching one more episode of Brooklyn 99, and promptly laughing until he nearly choked, Jean switched off the TV. He'd been taught how to get himself ready on his own - hygiene, dressing, all the usual necessities - and while he was still a little rusty at his new way of life, he just about managed to navigate around his house, get washed and into a suitable pair of sweatpants and hoodie, and leave the building with a simple note on the kitchen table; 'went out. Took £10 note. I didn't take the dog and he's probably hyper.' The last bit was mostly aimed at his sister; perhaps she'd take Bleddyn for a walk later on when she got back.   
  
Jean wheeled himself down the street. It was a terraced suburb, about five minutes away from town by car. Walking would take longer, and Jean's arms were certainly not strong enough to keep himself going for that long. Instead, he headed round the corner, further into the labyrinth of red brick houses. He'd lived in this area his entire life, and he knew his way around it by heart. Knew where the park was, knew where all the druggies hung out (he made sure to avoid that ugly road at all costs) and most of all, knew where his favourite corner shop was located.   
  
"So, you're finally back on your feet?" Gelgar was the cashier, and Jean only really put up with him because he tended to override rules - and laws - just to weed his way into a little extra cash. Okay, so perhaps Jean had bribed him a few times in the past - he knew it was against the law for a fifteen year old like himself to buy alcohol, but he was street wise. He knew how to get away with it, and so did Gelgar.   
  
Jean only stared at the man in response. Gelgar had a habit of making rather distasteful jokes at the worst of times, and Jean hated it.   
  
"Yeah, you're so fucking funny. I just came here for, like, a beer, or something." He uttered, keeping his voice low. There was no audio recording in the CCTV, but Jean was allowed to be anxious - even if he'd done this so many times before, it still wasn't exactly within the rules.  
  
"Sorry, I can't do that for you. Not this time, anyway." This was the first time Gelgar had ever said anything of the sort. Gelgar, the only employee of a corner shop, who frequently broke laws and was, himself, an alcoholic.  
  
"Why not? You've done it for me before. You've done it for loads of people before. What, did the police come round or something?" Jean wheeled up to the counter, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Well, it finally did you in, didn't it? Wandered right in front of a bus, you did." Immediately, Jean's face flushed red. More of those stupid fucking rumours.  
  
"Gel, man, I was at school. They don't let guys my age drink at all, let alone in a fucking school. Knock it off, I'll pay you extra. I just want one can." How many people had started saying he'd been drunk when he was hit? Or was this another one of Gelgar's inappropriate jokes?   
  
Gelgar sighed, going through the motions and nodding towards the chocolate shelf. He had a system - people would buy any old item from the shop, and he'd sneak the drink they wanted into a bag where the CCTV cameras were blind.   
  
"I'm not supposed to be doing this." He muttered when Jean made his way back over to him with a packet of maltesers and his £10 note. He looked anxious. He was shaking, just the tiniest bit.  
  
"What happened to make you so paranoid? You were never like this before." If Jean was right, and there really was a rumour that he'd been intoxicated at the time of the incident, there was a chance the police would be turned towards this very shop. "Fuck, they didn't question you or something when I was in rehab, did they? Or..." Jean was going to keep asking questions, but he was interrupted.  
  
"No, no. Nothing like that. I just don't think you should be drinking and driving." Gelgar laughed an awkward laugh. Jean was done here. He wasn't in the mood for stupid puns, he hadn't reached the  stage where he could properly joke about his affliction. He shoved his money towards the man and grabbed the brown paper bag on the counter.  
  
"Honestly, just- fuck you, Gel." He hastily left the shop, his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.   
  
"Watch your language, child." Gelgar was giggling now. Jean decided to ignore him, and he set off down the path.   
  
Jean knew it was irresponsible, and illegal, to do that he was doing with Gelgar, but he found the short burst of adrenaline and subsequent tipsy experience to be quite uplifting. He never drank alcohol to become drunk - just intoxicated enough to take his mind off stress. He acted like he hated Gelgar most of the time, but as long as he did him favours, he didn't really mind.   
  
He navigated himself back down the road. As he did so, he managed to relax a little more. There were trees dotted around every so often, and they seemed to cluster the closer he got to the local park. He wasn't thinking of going there - he wasn't really expected to go out for too long. He liked the brief freedom, though. He liked being able to choose what he was doing, where he was going, just like before the accident. Jean could do what he wanted when there was nobody around to tell him no. That was why he was so glad his parents and sister were busy elsewhere. In fact, it had taken him a little effort to convince his mother to cancel Nurse Berner's visit. As well as being a physiotherapist, Nurse Berner was Jean's home carer. Jean always assumed home carers were for people who were trapped inside their own bodies, with no control of their own at all. Nurse Berner was like a babysitter. Jean didn't mind him too much, but he much preferred solidarity to support. He could manage perfectly well on his own, he thought to himself.  
  
Jean dawdled a little on the way back home. He just wanted to finally look around his neighbourhood for the first time in a long while. It was an  _okay_ neighbourhood. Not the best, but not the worst either. It was satisfactory. Well, Jean would've much preferred a three-storey mansion in California with a pool and a butler, but perhaps a two-storey terraced house in Ealing with a trampoline in the back garden and a personal disability nurse would do just fine at that moment.   
  
When Jean did finally get back, the door was unlocked. He wheeled himself into the hallway, glancing around the room for any kind of hint at who was home. There was a small, green duffel coat on the hanger beside him, with a unicorn-shaped badge on the shoulder.  
  
"Hitch, I thought you were sleeping over at Tracy's tonight?" Great, now Jean had an eleven year old to take care of. Jean found it funny that she'd been named Hitch; he definitely saw her as one. He once read her the dictionary definition of the word; 'a temporary difficulty or problem'. He got grounded for that.    
  
"I was going to, but mum said I had to come home and look after you. You're the baby of the family now, not me." The girl giggled, from the living room. As far as Jean could tell, she'd taken over the sofa and was watching the latest episode of Made In Trost - a reality TV show about posh London kids living the life he could only ever dream of, except with more parties and lying, cheating boyfriends.   
  
"Call me that again and I'll drive over your ipod." Hitch was, in Jean's opinion, an insufferable bitch. However, she was only eleven, and she was his sister, so he had to put up with her. And after all, he  _did_ care for her, but only when he needed to. When she was upset or in trouble, the usual times a brother would care for his family.   
  
"You'd have to find it first, and if you go into my room I'll punch you." The girl had a surprisingly strong right hook, so Jean decided it was best to pick his battles with this one. He entered the living room, and he was completely correct.   
  
"Mum said I was allowed to lay here for the  _entire_ holiday. Shove over." He exaggerated his words a little. Okay, so he wasn't often genuinely angry at Hitch, and this wasn't one of those rare times, either. Most of their bickering was just play fighting. He pushed Hitch to the edge of the sofa (with most of his might, though he wouldn't easily admit to that) and climbed up on the opposite side. He deliberately placed his legs on top of her, with a cheeky smirk upon his pale face. "I told you to move."   
  
Hitch whined in protest, edging up until she was squished against the armrest. "God- get _off,_ Jean." She pushed his legs away, and when they were bent, his knees fell to the side and rested on the back cushion limply. Jean supposed it would be best to leave it like that.   
  
"If you're supposed to be looking after me, or whatever, get me a drink." Jean  _was_ supposed to be refreshing himself with the beer he'd bought previously. However, Hitch was small and innocent. It would implode her mind to see her elder brother of four years consuming something as forbidden and deadly as  _alcohol_.   
  
"Get your- ....Okay." She was going to reply with 'get your own', which were words that had left the girl's mouth countless times. Jean, especially back when he was actually able to walk, was a bit lazy in that regard. Hitch got up and left the room, and the moment she was looking away, Jean laid his legs out flat once more. "What do you want? Water, orange juice, or... I think we have some coke left from yesterday."   
  
"I'll have the coke, then." Jean had left his shopping bag on the wheelchair, so he reached over and grabbed his maltesers. Before his younger sibling could come back over and whine at him some more, he turned the TV over to something more interesting. The build up towards going back to school was getting tense. It was going to be a painfully short week, and Jean wanted to relax for the most of it. 

 

* * *

  
  
The week passed much quicker than Jean had anticipated. It was Monday morning, and it was cold and damp outside. Jean had mostly managed to get himself ready, and he was desperately trying to figure out what first period was, when the door rang. It wasn't the post; that always came at about midday, where he lived. Both his parents were at work now, and Hitch had left for school ten minutes before - she always went early so she could pick up a toast sandwich from the bakery - but maybe she'd left something behind. When Jean opened the door, however, he was greeted not with an annoying preteen with a wavy bob haircut, but with Nurse Berner.   
  
"Hey, Jean!" The thing with care workers, Jean thought, was that when they were working with anyone under the age of eighteen, they always acted overly enthusiastic. They were trying to be hip and cool and interesting, like Steve Buscemi holding a skateboard and introducing himself with 'hello, fellow children!'. It didn't work, and Jean found it a tad embarrassing. Nurse Berner himself was a tall man in his early thirties, with round, friendly eyes and mousey blonde hair that was messily parted in the centre of his fair-skinned forehead.   
  
"Um... Hi, Moblit." Jean's response was as timid as he was bewildered. Nurse Berner was also the kind of care worker who insisted everything was personal, and so Jean was told to call him by his first name.   
  
"Your mum called me and said you needed driving to school?" Nurse Berner waved his phone around as if Jean was supposed to be able to see the message he was describing.   
  
"But doesn't that mess with your schedule?" Jean crossed his arms, trying to find any excuse that would let him get out of this. He didn't want to be driven to school. He was never driven to school before this. He always walked. He wanted to walk  _now_ , even if by 'walk' he meant 'scoot a chair down the road'.   
  
"No, no! It's fine, I'm here to help. Getting up an hour or two earlier to help you out is just part of my job, Jean."   
  
"But I know the way, I can get there." Jean moved his arms and placed his hands on the wheels, preparing to push off at a moment's notice. Nurse Berner was blocking his path.   
  
"It's raining, you'll be soaked. Speaking of which, I'm soaked, too. Come on, are you ready? Let's go." The man stepped away from the doorway. Jean was going to have to oblige.   
  
Nurse Burner's car was a WAV from work. The title stood for 'wheelchair accessible vehicle', but Jean liked to call it the Wav Chariot. Once he was safely in, Nurse Berner drove off in the direction of Jean's school.  
  
"So, are you excited?" He asked Jean, who couldn't see his face, but he had no doubt the man was smiling like an idiot, like always.  
  
"Yeah, I guess." All of Jean's responses were that of a typical teenager's. Sullen and quiet, and bored out of his mind.   
  
"What class do you have first? Anything interesting?" Jean could tell Nurse Berner was trying his hardest to be nice, and to make conversation.   
  
"Just... I dunno, drama." Clearly, the boy was not one for small talk like his nurse was.   
  
"Ah. So, drama's fun. You'll have a nice welcome back, I expect? I'm sure they've all missed you." Jean snorted at the man's response.  
  
"Yeah, sure. Of course." After that whole fight with Eren? No, Jean didn't suppose they  _would_ miss him all that much. Maybe they would feign concern, just so they could act proud for supposedly caring for the cripple.   
  
"Aw, don't be like that, Jean! I'm sure you'll have a great day. You're probably just anxious. Your friends visited you a lot in hospital, didn't they? They'll be very happy to see you back with them in class." Nurse Berner was a determined warrior, and his only goal was to vanquish the king of doubt inside Jean's head. "Oh, and by the way- You might need to go to the office when you get in there. I'll come with you, I think they want to speak with me, too. It's nothing bad, don't worry. They just need to explain a few things. Y'know, boring stuff. Toilets, elevators, just things to help you around the building." Great. Jean was officially going to be The Disabled Kid. He'd never seen the door to the disabled toilet open before in his life, and the last time the elevators were used was that time Franz broke his leg.   
  
Nurse Berner pulled up outside of the school. Students were piling in from all angles, through the gate and into the building. Jean even saw his sister, walking with her friends. She glanced over at the Wav Chariot - she recognised it instantly. She quickly turned her head away as if she'd never seen a thing, and that was how Jean liked it. He didn't want attention to be drawn to him, even though he knew it would be inevitable the moment he wheeled into his first lesson.   
  
As soon as Jean unloaded from the Wav Chariot, he noticed people staring. 'Oh look, it's that boy who got run over.' He could see it in all their faces. Some people simply ignored him and strode into the courtyard, and he appreciated those people. Others were gawking at him like he had two heads. People moved away as he wheeled his way across the courtyard, with Nurse Burner tagging along closely, and he felt like a really strange version of Moses, parting the red sea.   
  
The head of year 11 was Mr Ackerman, a man of short stature with greasy, floppy, black hair. He was leaning on his desk in the office with his arms folded, and a permanently serious expression glazed his pale face.   
  
"Ah, Kirschtein. I just needed to speak to you about a few things. It'll only take a second, don't worry. First of all, good to see you're back. Focus on your grades, now." The rest of his speech didn't just 'take a second'. Jean was sat there for a good five minutes whilst the thirty four year old drawled on about how to use the elevator, how to access the disabled toilets on all three floors, what to do in case of an emergency, and most importantly, "If you ever need us, we're always here". Yes, because teachers always dedicated their whole lives to the school. They slept on their desks in sleeping bags. Jean actually used to think that, when he was very little.   
  
After that, Nurse Berner took Jean around the school and showed him where everything was. Jean just wanted to blurt out, 'I know where everything is. I've been here for five years already'. He didn't, though, because he at least  _tried_ to be polite. When Nurse Berner was done, the school bell rang through the hallways. It was time for first period. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope you liked the first chapter! If you liked it, I would really appreciate a kudos and maybe even a comment. It'd be really cool to hear your thoughts! Sorry Marco didn't make an appearance, he definitely will in chapter 2. I promise.


	2. That First Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean's first day at school, plus he strikes up a conversation with a boy who never turned up.

When Jean arrived at the auditorium, every head in the room turned to look at him. The eyes were piercing him, and it burned. Every person seemed to have a look of shock, or confusion, or surprise. Nobody had been told Jean would be returning to school this week. The only people who could possibly know were The Lads, who'd stayed in touch with Jean whilst he was recovering via Call Of Duty. Unfortunately, not many of The Lads were in drama with Jean, apart from Thomas - but Thomas wasn't in school, from the look of things.   
  
Reappearing in school felt like culture shock to Jean. Everyone was wearing the same thing - white shirt, black trousers (or a skirt, if the wearer was a lady), red tie, and if they were in sixth form, a rather unflattering garnet red blazer would be required as well. Most of the people abided by the school uniform rules, apart from one particular boy, who Jean had the pleasure of sharing his first class back in school with. Eren Jaeger had been the first person to look around. He'd narrowly avoided getting detention from Mr Ackerman for his lip piercing, and anyone who had the same P.E class as him would know he had at least two tattoos safely hidden away. Jean assumed he wore eyeliner on the weekends, as well. Makeup was banned at school, of course, but most people managed to avoid being yelled at as long as it was "natural".   
  
Mr Bossard only looked up from the register after everyone else in the room had. They were all sitting in the audience seats rather than standing up - the auditorium was much like a miniature performance room, or a large lecture hall. It was where the school held its bi-annual stage productions. Jean couldn't go and sit down where everyone else was, so he took it upon himself to get a head start and wait on the stage. Mr Bossard, a tall, sandy-haired man who seemed to enjoy mimicking Mr Ackerman's demeanour, decided to get straight to the point.   
  
"Kirschtein, it's nice to see you back around here. Have fun missing out on two major assessments?" He laughed with a slightly sinister smirk. Mr Bossard tried to be charismatic, but it usually came off as intimidating and slightly creepy. Jean could only smile back, but with a lot less of the attitude. He didn't suppose he'd be having an enjoyable first day back.   
  
Mr Bossard send everyone off to continue with their own work - though Jean knew drama students well, and he knew once they were out of their teacher's sight they'd all be messing around backstage with props. The teacher approached Jean once everyone else was busy and creating noise, leaning down a little - which aggravated Jean to no end.   
  
"I wouldn't worry, by the way, Jean. I'll just send off your grades from year 10. Don't panic, they're all As and Bs." Mr Bossard's smile seemed a bit more genuine this time, and Jean felt a bit less nervous.   
  
"Will I have time to get marks for this new thing, or-?" Jean was anxious to get back into the flow of things. Despite lazing around at home, he'd allowed himself time to work hard - he'd bought a new school bag, completed all his unfinished work, added to his coursework, annotated - he was a high school geek.   
  
"I'll set you up with a group and they'll tell you what we're doing. It's quite simple - seriously, don't worry yourself with this. We're re-enacting Derek Bentley." Jean knew about the story of Derek Bentley. His story was the reason the death penalty had been abolished. It was quite a depressing thing to have to come back to, to be honest. At least it explained the abundance of "Let him have it, Chris!"-es echoing around the hall.    
  
The group Jean had been 'set up' with was possibly one of the worst groups he could ever think of; Thomas, who wasn't in; Mina, who was playing on her phone; Marco, who as far as Jean was aware, was  _never_ in; and Eren. Eren could've been doing anything, and he'd still manage to piss Jean off. In this particular instance, he was playing with the rope to the stage curtains, swinging around it like a pole dancer.  _Teenagers_. Jean thought.   
  
"The wild Jaeger shows off his mating  appeal." Jean muttered, though he made sure he'd be heard by Eren over the shrieks of assorted Derek Bentleys and Christopher Craigs. Unlike usual, Eren didn't retort with an assorted insult, which would be different every day depending on the mood and setting. Instead, the boy just stared, and he let go of the rope. If Jean concentrated carefully enough, he could pinpoint exactly where Eren's gaze laid - his nose. His ugly, crooked nose. And just whose fault might that've been?   
  
"I... uh. Like your hair." Eren had struggled to spit out the words. Jean could easily assume someone had disciplined him, told him to try and be nice. When there were rumours spreading around that you pushed a fifteen year old in front of a bus, it was understandable that you'd try to paint over your mistakes and draw a better picture of yourself. Try to make a collage full of compliments to hide the ugly, angry scribbles from before. Jean wasn't buying it. That collage was cheap and made up of value tissue paper from the kids section in the local supermarket. You want to impress someone, you give it your all, buy quality materials online when they're half price. Maybe embellish it while you're at it. That was something Eren hadn't bothered to do.   
  
"All I did was get it cut." Jean could at least see the relevance of the comment - he  _did_ get a restyle whilst in recovery. His mum thought it'd cheer him up. He said goodbye to his fluffy, swishy hair and welcomed a shorter cut, which was easier for him to wash. He wasn't particularly fond of getting the back and sides of his head shaved completely, but what was done, was done. Besides, perhaps it would distract his classmates from the elephant in the room. As long as people didn't make a big deal over his bent nose or keep forcing Jean to confirm that, no, his legs did not in fact respond his brain, he was good to go.   
  
The rest of his day at school was mainly similar. He'd enter the classroom, his teacher would tell him how to catch up on his work, and people would act surprised and oddly kind to him for the entire period. This wasn't school, not how Jean remembered it. Despite all the supposedly kind words he'd  it only made him feel more miserable. They didn't really think his hair was nice, they didn't really think his bent nose was dashing, and he nearly threw a book at one idiot who'd been dumb enough to try and tell him that she found the fact that he was in a wheelchair more interesting. Interesting? Was she being serious? Jean couldn't believe it, in all honesty. How much of an ignorant bitch could someone be? Even lunch time with The Lads didn't make up for that. Everyone was quiet, all his friends acted like everyone else had done. Whatever happened to acting casual, as they had done over Teamspeak or Skype? Oh, right. It always came back down to the accident. Jean had been through the mourning stage. He'd cried himself to sleep several times already, screamed his lungs out in anguish when nobody was listening, ranted to his heart's content when he really needed to. He'd had plenty of time to suffer. Now he just wanted to try and forget, even if it was nagging at his mind every minute of the day. Everyone treading on eggshells around him didn't help, it only made him think about it even more. He wanted things to be normal now. He wished it had never happened at all.   
  
When Jean got home from school (courtesy of Nurse Moblit Berner Chauffeurs™), everything was mostly indifferent. Hitch had decided to take over the entire sofa, trying to make sure that there was no room for anyone else - not even Bleddyn, who had instead laid down on the carpet in defiance. What an abysmal Monday afternoon. Jean ended up grabbing a bottle of coke from the kitchen fridge, before making his way upstairs. He'd been given plenty of time now to get used to the large white platform which acted as an elevator, yet it still gave him the most sickening vertigo. All these contraptions used for making his life easier only made him more anxious.    
  
Once Jean had gotten himself into something more comfortable, he settled down at his laptop. He was really exhausted from just, well, everything. Going to school and having to socialise were two things he'd become rather rusty at. The version of life where he wore a mask that helped him to breathe at night, and got examined by doctors every day, and was generally isolated from society had become the norm for him. He was having difficulty adjusting, despite his usually-social behaviour. As he logged onto Skype, the abundance of messages from one friend in particular told him at least one person in his life cared a little about how he was feeling. Jean only felt bothered enough to read the most recent messages, even though there had been a lot beforehand.   
  
        **Short Fucker**  
        look i kno everyone was acting weird around u and im sorry abt that  
  
        i told them to grow the fuck up if that helps  
  
        if it didnt then ill probably throw myself into an abyss or smth  
  
        but anyway i just wanted to see if u were ok  
  
        havent seen ur face in a while so i guess im glad ur back  
  
        we should go out for food or smth   
  
        are u ok ur online but not answering  
  
Jean had been waiting for him to stop typing, in all honesty. He was trying to envision what to say. This was his best friend; they'd met up plenty of times as of late. They'd called eachother regularly. Why had it become so hard for Jean to simply respond? He sighed deeply and tapped his not-as-slender-as-he-would've-hoped fingers softly on the keyboard.   
  
        **Jean  
        **dude. i'm fine. i only just got on. left my laptop open last night.   
  
Was that really all he could say? Jeez.   
  
 **Jean**  
        i wanna get out of this house tbh. fucking sucks. id go out for a coffee with you or something but my sisters watching MLP or some other shit like that and my parents think she needs babysitting.   
  
 **Short Fucker  
  **      ur parents are always out u could ditch her  
  
  **Jean  
  **      she'll find any reason to slag me off, you know that. plus getting around is a hassle.   
  
  **Short Fucker  
  **      mum could drive us to mcdonalds idk  
  
  **Jean  
  **      did you even read what i just told you  
  
  **Short Fucker  
  **      what if i came over urs  
  
  **Jean  
  **      i think i just wanna relax today. maybe some other time??   
  
  **Short Fucker  
 **       ur the epitome of boring. u go sleep or pay taxes or whatever it is u enjoy doing.  
         
        me n the boys were thinkng of going out to town after school on thursday also if u wanted to come  
  
  **Jean  
 **       which boys??  
  
It was times like this when Jean had to wonder if Connie was a bit on the dull side. Believe it or not, Eren was one of The Boys, one of The Lads. Jean just  _knew_ he'd end up tagging along to any social occasion there was, since he was the kind of guy who would do anything to avoid going straight home after school. Eren had problems as well, and as much as Jean appreciated that hanging out with The Lads was his escape, it meant Jean was going to have to sacrifice his  _own_  escape.   
  
 **Short Fucker**  
        u kno. the boys.  
  
 **Jean**  
        can't come either way. doctor's appointment.   
  
 **Short Fucker**  
        dont u like live in hospital now or smth  
         
        i broguth u chocolates that one time  
  
        *brought  
  
        do u want a briefcase with ur boring lifestyle  
  
Jean decided to stop answering after that. It was true that he had an appointment that day, so at least he had a valid excuse instead of feigning sickness in order to get out of a shitty arrangement. He instead shut his eyes, just resting them for a moment, to recover from the day he'd managed to push himself through.  
 

* * *

  
Thursday came fast, since every day beforehand had been both overwhelming and uneventful. It was easy for Jean to get back into his usual routine when it consisted of 'go to school, do lesson, talk to friends, come back home, throw soft item at sister' and the most important part of all, 'write angsty notes in journal relating to deep emotions triggered by experienced trauma'. That was the part Jean was at now. Today it wasn't so much writing, rather he was tapping his fingers on his lap rhythmically, and it was the only sound in the room. Jean was propped up in bed - he seemed to rely on chairs and cushions to keep him sitting upright nowadays, since his injury was just high enough in his back that without any support, he'd probably end up falling flat on his back if he didn't put real effort into staying up. His head was facing towards the ceiling, but he had his eyes closed. He wanted to escape. Videogames weren't doing that for him today, nor were tv shows. No, he was going to have to rely on his imagination for comfort. If he stayed still for long enough, he could really feel he was there. Well, somewhere. A familiar place. A time he missed.   
  
Wind against his skin, soft, dark blonde hair in desperate need of a cut - though he had firmly asked for an appointment several times now - falling into his eyes. It was March, but it was warm. Hot, even. Sweltering. His clothes were damp from sweat - and from Nac squirting a bottle of water at him from behind, when he hadn't been looking. Jean was fourteen and mainly carefree. As he ran around the feed, he pelted his foot into a black and white ball, which shot into the net in an instant. Ever since his childhood he'd been a little on the chubby side, but it would be wrong by anyone to deny that he had one of the best kicks out of the entire school year group. That was why his P.E teacher favoured him so much. Didn't matter his upbringing or his rather snobby circumstances, he was hard working when he wanted to be, and he got the job done.   
  
A whistle pierced his eardrums.   
  
He'd scored the winning goal. All his friends were cheering.   
  
Oh God, he was going to be missing this in a year's time. There were a lot of things Jean missed. Obviously the lack of sport was a downer, and he knew if he went along to watch his friends having a game of footie after school he'd only become bitter. Another reason to stay inside, on his own, no doubt. He missed his independence. He'd never imagined that, had he lost the use of his legs, he'd end up being catered for by every adult in town as if he were a decade younger. It felt like all his progress in life had been for nothing. Then there were the little things, of course. Bouncing his leg when he was anxious. Wiggling his toes to make sure his shoes were on just comfortably. Even if he didn't own a set of abs, at least before the accident he could flex his abdomen like any other person he knew. Hell, he even missed pissing the way everyone else did. Now even normal bodily functions were a bit of a hassle, in his own opinion.   
  
His thoughts were becoming sidetracked. He forced himself to keep imagining that brilliant match.   
  
It wasn't like in the movies, where everyone screamed out his name and adored him like a famed celebrity. Instead, he got a pat on the back or two and a few nice words. It was still enough to make him proud.  _Watch out, Christiano Ronaldo, here comes fourteen year old Jean Kirschtein from Ealing, London, here to kick your ass._  
  
Real-world Jean smiled to himself as he thought about how carefree he'd been a year back. Despite being an utter a-class arsehole - and he would admit to that, sure - he'd been young and innocent and naive. He'd been growing more and more fond of the phrase "ignorance is bliss" as of late, even if it wasn't entirely applicable to his current situation. He rather saw it in a metaphorical way, like the calm before the storm. The happiness that dwelled before everything decided to spiral down the shitter.   
  
He dwelled on his thoughts for a while in complete and utter silence, which was broken at 4:13pm, when the front door opened.   
  
"Come on, Jean! Time to get ready! We need to leave, pronto." His mother's call echoed through the building. What? Get ready? For what? Oh, right. The appointment. The boy sighed to himself as he pulled himself into his wheelchair. He was still in his regular school uniform, and didn't see a real need to get changed. His mother would only start nagging him to hurry up from the other side of the door, after all. Grabbing his phone and a hoodie, he headed downstairs.   
  
Jean's parents didn't own a Wav Chariot. Too much money - not that they were exactly lacking in that regard. Besides, it was usually Nurse Berner who took Jean everywhere, since his parents were always out of the house. So, instead, his mother helped him into the back seat of her expensive black land rover, which was an embarrassing experience, to say the least. Jean couldn't exactly just climb in - the seats were too high, so instead he had to endure ten seconds of embarrassment as his mother picked him up bridal style (with maximum effort and a jolt of terror when he was nearly dropped on the tarmac) and placed him in the car. Hitch was watching, giggling, and - was she taking a picture? God, this couldn't have been any worse. Afterwards, his wheelchair (probably the fanciest on the market under £500, with a headrest and a reclining feature, to boot - his parents insisted only the best for their boy) was folded and shoved into the car boot.   
  
"Delete that." Jean growled at his sister as he plugged himself in. Hitch had been asked to come to the hospital with them, since their mother didn't trust her being home alone for the appointment.   
  
"I can't. It's snapchat." The girl denied with a shit-eating grin, picking up her uncontrollable giggles once more.   
  
"You little bitch-" Jean muttered, checking his phone, head against the car window.   
  
"Language, Jean!" He heard his mother practically screech. Well, not screech. More of a shrill gasp.   
  
"But she sent a picture to- Hitch, who did you send it to?"  
  
"No-bo-dy."  
  
"You just said it was on snapchat."   
  
"Might've sent it to some of my friends- only, like, a couple. It was just funny." Hitch defended herself. Jean could only grumble in frustration - if he prolonged the argument, his mother would only jump in and treat him like the villain. That always happened with younger siblings, and he could do nothing about it. Jean instead decided to ignore what was left of the little argument he'd just had, and shoved his headphones into his ears. Time to escape from the world like he had twenty minutes ago.   
 

* * *

  
When Jean arrived at the hospital, the waiting room seemed very quiet. Only a few people were sat down, staring at their phones or at decade-old magazines. He was bored already. He tried to make time pass quicker by playing games on his phone - maybe a little bit of minecraft or angry birds - but truthfully, he'd been sick of those games since he was twelve. He just wanted something to do. He didn't want to talk to his mother or his sister - hell, that'd probably make him feel worse. After about fifteen minutes of procrastinating his own entertainment, a nurse walked in.  
  
"Gene Kr- Kirch-" She stammered, reading off a clipboard.  
  
"Jean Kirschtein." The teenager coughed, and wheeled himself over to the woman. She seemed a little incompetent, maybe she was new. Jean had spent enough time in hospital to know there was no point in getting annoying at nurses for getting his name wrong. It happened too many times.   
  
"X-ray room." The nurse offered a small, anxious smile. She was trying, at least. "You know where that- is- right?"   
  
Jean only nodded in response. He made his way down the corridor, not caring how far behind his mother and sister were. He was thankful to have a few seconds away from them, to be honest. He parked himself in the empty waiting room, folding his arms and preparing for an even larger dose of boredom. Then, a miracle happened.   
  
"Muuuum." Hitch whined.  
  
"Yes?"   
  
"I'm hungry."   
  
"We'll get food later, Hitch."  
  
"But I need to pee."   
  
Jean's mother could only sigh. She'd lost that battle. She knew Hitch would only keep whining.  
  
"Jean, the doctor said it'd be a while until you're called in. Do you mind if we just run off to the concourse for about- I don't know, twenty minutes?" She pleaded. The concourse was the only part of the building Jean liked  - they had a Starbucks in there. Just a load of shops for the patients to mill around in, and the doctors, too, when they were on their break.   
  
"S'fine." Jean decided not to sound too eager. That just wasn't how he played things, even if he really  _was_  desperate for the two to disappear. And that was exactly what they did.  
  
And now, Jean was alone.   
  
God, it was even more boring without the soft complaining of his little sister in the background. He felt as if he was in solitary confinement, except for the occasional nurse or patient walking past the waiting room. How utterly dull. Was he seriously the only x-ray patient here? Then again, it wasn't usually like this. X-rays weren't exactly a regular check-up for him, but his doctor seemed to want to know how his recovery was doing. Wanted to see if his spine still looked messed up. Oh hell, did he hate x-rays.   
  
Eventually, the doors to the waiting room opened again, and instead of walking through to the next room, the person came and sat down a few seats away from Jean. Jean couldn't be entirely bothered to look up at the person, but from the corner of his eye he'd seen a slender figure, possibly on the short side - though, Jean was short compared to  _everyone_ nowadays - wearing a comfortable sweater and a pair of dark trousers. Jean only looked up, when the person nearby him spoke.   
  
"Jean."   
  
"Wh-?" It took the boy a few seconds to recognise who it was. It was that one guy. That guy who never showed up to class. What  was his name? Fuck, he was in Jean's own group in drama, and he still couldn't pinpoint it.  
  
"Mark...?" Jean breathed, biting his lip. Come on, he knew this. Brown hair, freckles. Probably from Italy.   
  
"Uhm- Marco." The brunette corrected him. Yeah, now he remembered.   
  
"What're you doing here? I mean, no offence, but I thought you didn't exist." Jean wasn't intentionally rude most of the time, but it sure came off that way. Marco rubbed the back of his neck shyly, and glanced away.   
  
"Sorry, I just haven't been in school. I've been, uhm, sick. How long have you been back in school?" Marco was trying to be friendly, and Jean appreciated that. Usually, when he made dickish remarks to people he didn't really know, he'd receive an even dick-ier remark. The dickiest. Was that a word? Yeah, sure, make it a word. Jean liked to make words that fitted his needs.   
  
"Just this week. Guess you heard about what happened... right?" Marco was out of lessons so frequently that Jean wasn't entirely sure if he had any social life - so, it was entirely possible that he might not've known what was up. Whenever the guy  _was_ in, he'd be sitting by a bunch of nobodies, like that smartass with the blonde bob-cut.   
  
"Everyone has, to be honest. It was kinda, y'know, on the news." Marco responded. He was softly spoken and gentle in his approach.   
  
"Yeah." Jean laughed quietly. "Right." He glanced away, too, and he was silent for a while. So was Marco. They just sat in complete quiet, as if they were in a vacuum. This was more peaceful than boring, this time. After a minute or two, Jean decided to break that peace.   
  
"I got put in your group in drama. Derek Bentley, is it?" Jean decided there would be no harm in striking up a conversation. Marco seemed like a nice guy - he was just a bit weird. Quiet, and barely ever in. Then again, once you'd heard him speak - and anyone in the school could probably agree - it would be like he had the entire encyclopaedia of morals inside his head. It was hard to meet people with such genuinely nice personalities in a school like the one Jean attended. Teenagers were assholes.   
  
"Heh, you got stuck with Eren. Sorry about that. ...The group wants me to play Derek. I don't know- it's a really sad story. I don't wanna die-  even  if it's in a play, y'know?" Marco expressed, leaning back in his seat. He seemed a little more relaxed now, and that made the two of them smile.   
  
"Yeah, it was a really shitty thing to come back to school to.At least you're not playing Christopher, right? Can't see you as a murderer." Jean laughed again, this time less awkwardly. He was no longer out of his comfort zone. Why had he never spoken to Marco before? Maybe it was just because Jean had to uphold his reputation as one of the hot, popular assholes with good grades. People like that didn't hang around unnoticed sweethearts with great grades.   
  
"Eren was really enthusiastic about getting the role as Chris- it was kinda creepy, actually." The freckled boy responded, still quiet, but clearly in a good mood. He seemed less shy now. He scooted up a few seats so he could sit closer to Jean. Jean didn't mind that. In fact, Marco was probably one of the only people to actively attempt to have a conversation with Jean since the accident. Even though he'd been visited by his friends in rehab, they'd never been all that enthusiastic. Marco was a different kind of person. He was the kind of person Jean needed as a friend now, and he didn't want to fuck it up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh!! sorry it took so long to post this, and sorry if it seems a little short. I'm currently in the middle of all my exams at school and it's really stressful. Hopefully the next chapter will be better. Also, I finally got to introduce Marco!!


End file.
